


Evidence

by aiwaguru, HadrienAsbury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiwaguru/pseuds/aiwaguru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HadrienAsbury/pseuds/HadrienAsbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John felt like a lion in a cage, staring at its food. He was looking at Sherlock, and the detective was cowering away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evidence

 

 

 _Bloody arse of a flatmate. Arrogant prat._  
  
 _Damned fucking Sherlock. I hate you. I just hate you. No, I don't. Yes, I do,_ he thought as he stomped up the stairs, not even bothering to care about his leg muscles seizing up slightly.  
  
It just added to the insult.  
  
He had really thought that after all that had happened, all that they had gone through together, this was the last thing that would happen again.  
  
Sherlock had _forgotten_ him. Namely left him behind at their latest crime scene.  
  
John had looked for him everywhere, feeling a lot like a lost puppy, so sure his owner would come back for him.  
  
And who knows how long he would have stood there, looking around with a pained expression on his face if Donovan hadn't taken pity of him and informed him Sherlock had hailed a cab and disappeared 30 minutes before.  
  
How stupid of him, how daft!  
  
He was _not_ letting Sherlock run all over him, not again, not ever, _at least not this time._  
  
"You undeserving twat! You could not wait for two minutes, could you?" he shouted as soon as he barged into their living room.  
  
Sherlock leaned out of the kitchen doorway just as the door slammed back against the wall, bouncing off again with the force. He nudged his lab goggles up his face with his gloved hand, careful not to touch his skin, and let his eyes rake down John's body as the other man started the closest thing to a violent pace that you could do with only ten steps from window to doorway.  
  
Sherlock had tested all kinds of pacing there.  
  
 _Elevated breathing; heavy, quick footsteps; red flush high on cheekbones; shouting; 'twat,' reserved for people John actually thought were stupid instead of people who actually were stupid._  
  
 _Problem._  
  
"Problem?"

  
John felt his anger spike, and it blurred his vision for a moment as he turned to look at Sherlock. Of course he was busy with one of his bloody experiments.  
  
"Problem?" he repeated, aggravated. He could not believe it. "Yes, I have a problem, Sherlock! Have you not noticed you left me behind at the crime scene? Have you not noticed I was gone at all?" he snapped, and it unsettled him to say _that_ out loud.  
  
Was he still truly that... _forgettable_ to Sherlock?  
  
His heart was beating so fast in his chest it hurt. He realized it was not just anger.

  
 "Didn't think you'd need a ride really, since that's what you were clearly trying to get from, what was it, _Melody_?"  
  
His voice twisted in his terrible impression of John, the one John hated more than the one he used for pretend medical advice, "' _She's all alone tonight, Sherlock, be nice to her, Sherlock, she loved her bloody dead sister, Sherlock_.'"  
  
He sneered, the effect probably muted by the googles still on his head. "Did you get your ride then, or was it over too soon?"

  
That took him by surprise. John blinked, took in the words, and then frowned. "Excuse me?" he croaked disbelieving.  
  
" _You_ thought torturing a young woman for information and leaving her in tears in my arms was just the best thing to do, wasn't it? And then why not, leaving your PA with no money for a cab," he took in a shaky breath. "I had to walk for 25 minutes to get to the nearest tube station! So no, evidently enough, I did not get a ride," he snapped breathlessly.

  
Sherlock snarled at him, taking a step forward into the living room even as his most recent slide of bacteria was slowly drying out under his microscope.  
  
"Her sister died three bloody years ago in a car accident! Even _you_ should have been able to tell that she was trying to gain your sympathy. The papers just love it: John Watson, _the sensitive one_. She just wanted a **date**! You're an idiot if you failed to get one, since the woman was practically in your lap to begin with!"  
  
John's eyes were restless on Sherlock's face as the other shouted at him. He had seen Sherlock annoyed before, petulant as well, this was slightly different. It was a mix of offended and truly hurt. It didn't make any sense in John's head.  
  
Sherlock pointed his yellow-gloved finger, stabbing it in the air as he took two more heated steps into the room.  
  
"There is no **pulling** at my **fucking crime scenes**!"  
  
Sherlock's heart was racing by the end of it, and it was only at the end that he realized how out of control his anger was. He sounded like a fool, and he knew it. He spun on his heel and went back into the kitchen, leaving John staring behind him. Just his expression, just his wide-eyed innocent ignorant bloody-- _PROBLEM._  
  
"Just because you think that grief has an expiration date doesn't mean the rest of the world functions that way," he replied just as angrily. Once his blood burned, he could hardly hold himself.  
  
What rights did Sherlock have to be... _jealous_?  
  
Was he jealous?  
  
"In case you did not notice, the world does not bow to your rules, Sherlock. A crime scene is not _yours_ , not even remotely."  
  
And he wasn't going to let him walk away, that was sure.  
  
He marched into the kitchen and right in his face. "I was not trying anything, but even if I was, it gives you no right to just leave me behind like some piece of rubbish. You could have at least said something!"  
  
Sherlock stepped back, and in his agitation he whipped his goggles off his head and started pulling off his gloves.  
  
"Get away from me. Just--" and he shook his head, ripping off the gloves and throwing them down on the table as he attempted to walk backwards around it, away from John, away from his proximity and his face and his eyes pulled down in confusion.  
  
"Just fine. Fine. You can have your apology, just get away from me."

  
John felt like a lion in a cage, staring at its food. He was looking at Sherlock, and the detective was cowering away.  
  
It still didn't make any sense.  
  
"No, Sherlock, you have to explain it to me now, really," he insisted, stepping closer. "Why do you think you can put rules between us without mentioning it to me first? I am curious. Am I supposed to just know you don't want me to flirt when we are working? Or you would want me to deduce it?" he asked, even though he truly had not tried anything that day... he had just been nice. Like usual.  
  
"I am not fishing for apologies here, I need you not to do this again, I do not like it, Sherlock," he hissed, even though the anger seemed to be fading. Why was Sherlock suddenly concerned about personal space?  
  
Sherlock frowned, his thoughts skating, his heart reeling.  
  
 _Stop. Focus. **Focus**. Not on John, no, tabletop. yes tabletop. Bacteria sample: ruined. Fault: mine. John: trying to talk to me, trying to ask me. Give him an answer, make him go away. Stop remembering, stop thinking it meant something. STOP._  
  
"It's-- fine. I mean it's, um, no, I don't expect you to. It's fine. You did nothing more than you usually do, you got her to tell me where she was yesterday even though I don't think she would have had you not been there to care about her useless memories in her brother-in-law's flat. And you-- There are no rules. You can do whatever you want, apparently. It means nothing."  
  
 _That was emotional, you're being emotional. It didn't happen. It never mattered, it was an exception to a behavior pattern than has never waivered, ever, not for even the least desirable of women or the most desirable of men. Means nothing._  
  
Sherlock made it to the edge of the kitchen, his eyes still on the tabletop but unable to turn away from the other man, furiously thinking of a way to dissuade him from further questions.  
  
But he was angry still. He was. He could see the lines of black and white text they spent on wondering why John Watson could stand Sherlock Holmes, remarking on how such a kind man got caught up in the madness of a cold-hearted genius.  
  
 _Oh yes, so kind. So giving, willing to give everyone a listen, willing to give his heart to anyone, so fucking--_  
  
 _STOP_  
  
Sherlock turned, suddenly furious again, his mind’s eye seeing some worthless tart in John's arms the same way John held _everyone_.  
  
 _Everyone. Not special. Didn't matter._

  
John frowned, there was a thought at the back of his head; it was nagging him, annoying him.  
  
It was saying Sherlock looked scared, it said Sherlock looked hurt. It didn't make any sense though, John hadn't done anything out of the ordinary and for God's sake he could be with that woman now if he had actually wanted to.  
  
"Clearly it's _not_ fine if you can’t even string a few words together to explain yourself," he exclaimed, feeling cruel for trying to get anything out of him. But why was he supposed to be tactful when Sherlock hardly was? Why was he supposed to feel guilty after he had to come back on his own? This felt a lot like one of the arguments he used to have with his sister, and he did not like that one bit.  
  
"What exactly _means nothing_ , Sherlock?" he pressed further. "The fact that I looked for you like a mad man, thinking that after all this time you would never forget about me or leave me behind?"

  
Sherlock's head snapped up, a realization hitting him hard enough to knock the rest of it away.  
  
"This is about... oh. I made you think you had a wrong assessment of our partnership."  
  
The deeply troubled tone was starting to get through to him, now. John was not aware that he had acted inappropriately, and really, he hadn't, but his own misguided emotions had Sherlock act in a way that now was complicating something best left alone.  
  
But John doubting... John doubting his _regard_ for him should not be allowed to continue. He did owe him an apology.  
  
"I didn't forget about you. I wouldn't-- I mean, well I would. I have. Wait, not what I meant." He took a deep breath. "I left you behind in a fit of pique. It was inappropriate to let my thoughts invade both my work and my regard for you."  
  
He forced himself to look John in the eye, "I apologize. I realize that saying I had a reason to abandon you is clearly not a 'good' thing, but it is better than you thinking I would simply leave you behind. So."  
  
Sherlock held his eyes, begging really, that that would be enough. That John would stop his stupid attempts at _thinking_.

  
The lines of John's forehead seemed to relax for a moment when he realized Sherlock had finally understood his point, but they were quick to come back as the detective dished out a logic he could hardly follow.  
  
He doubted Sherlock knew what he was saying.  
  
One thing was sure though: Sherlock had been jealous.  
  
The man had been mildly annoying when he used to date, but he had never been flat out jealous.  
Why was it different now?  
  
"I am not even going to dispute your supposed 'regard' for me," John hissed, annoyed, and then took in a deep breath, finding himself unable to keep yelling. "But what is it that _means nothing_?" he repeated, his voice steady and stubborn, because he was more than curious to know what this 'reason' was.  
  
When Sherlock heard annoyance in John's voice, his came back full force.  
  
"Leave it alone. This is **enough**. I'm sorry; won't happen again; lesson learned; friendship all well and good; that's all!"

  
John groaned: "No, it's not all good, Sherlock. You are... an impossible prat, you know that?" he insisted, stepping closer again. He had no idea why he needed to be in the other's space so much, it hardly made sense. His body moved of his own account, as if a familiar path.  
  
But again, Sherlock had never really cared about personal space at all. Why should it be a problem now?  
  
"Just because you half-ass an apology it does not mean the harm is all gone. This is not the first time you’ve treated me like rubbish, and I want to know if you plan to make a habit out of it. And I am not just talking about leaving me in random places!" He silently warned him with a steady gaze that this was not a joke to him.

  
Sherlock stepped back, farther into the living room, but he did not retreat. Instead his temper started to boil, John's disregard for his clear boundary on this topic taking its toll. Sherlock had seen people’s reactions to his temper, he knew he was frightening when he was furious.  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
"Oh and you're innocent, are you? Perfect John Watson with his heart of bloody gold! You can _certainly_ never do wrong, never be ‘cruel’ like you accuse me of being!”  
  
He stepped forward again, crowding him.  
  
"They think you're a _saint_ , and you act like one, too. You’re the perfect martyr, aren’t you!”  
  
"How can you blame me for what people _think_ of me?" whispered John, before he lost his voice completely, taken aback by the force of the detective’s words.  
  
"Because you're just going to keep _pushing it_. After I apologized, and meant it, because you think you've _earned it_ , haven’t you, because you’re so _bloody patient_ with the _bloody **freak**_. Well it seems I’ve earned something, too!” he nearly screamed.  
  
John's jaw dropped as he took in Sherlock's words, he couldn't possibly be serious? He couldn't possibly be angry at him for being bloody patient towards him?  
  
He really didn't have much of that patience at the moment, or ever. Had Sherlock not noticed his frequent bursts? His nervousness?  
  
“Tell me, where was your righteous indignation about treating people like rubbish when you treated _me_ that way!?"  
  
John’s anger seemed to have the better of him right then.  
  
He could not speak, he could not think, he was furious, livid, because most of all he had never felt so bloody misunderstood by Sherlock of all people.  
  
He didn't think, he just moved. He pushed Sherlock angrily.  
  
It was nothing more than a shove, but it was enough to make him step back.  
  
He was shaking when he found the words to speak again. "I have never... I have NEVER treated you badly!"

  
Sherlock snarled, pushing back, feeling his anger turn into something physical that he had never felt before. Not like this. Not wanting to hurt _John_.  
  
"No! No, it's worse than that!" he yelled, bending down, getting right in his face, "You never treated me badly, you just treated me like everyone else, _anyone_ else, anyone who happens to just _be there_."  
  
He grabbed a bit of his shirt, and then pushed him back, retaking his ground.  
  
 _NO NO NO!_  
  
"Anyone could have been in my place that night. Anyone conscious, anyone willing to buy you a coffee, anyone willing to bat their eyes!"  
  
By the end of it, he was screaming.  
  
"IT MEANT NOTHING TO YOU!"  
  
John's eyes were almost grey in the light of the evening, they fit his mood, dark, angry, and they moved on Sherlock as if wanting to cut everything they could find on that perfect skin.  
  
He felt himself growl when his shirt was grabbed, it was driving him mad, this whole situation was driving him mad, and John did not take accusations well. Especially not when they came from the most annoying pompous arse he had ever met.  
  
He struggled to keep to his feet when Sherlock pushed him backwards, his legs bumping against the sofa, and he lunged forward, grabbing the detective's collar with such strength that Sherlock's shoulders ended up against the wall.  
  
"How can I possibly treat _you_ like everyone else? You are my.only.fucking.friend! I don't even date any more just to stay with you, what else do you want from me?" he hissed, his voice scathing.  
  
"What. _Meant. Nothing_?" he repeated each word with a small shake, because he knew now that this piece of information was essential, he **had** to know.  
  
Sherlock was breathing hard through his nose, angry, confused, and for the second time in recent memory, afraid. He stared down at John, so close, just so, just like before. Just like a warm Tuesday, five weeks ago, what had been a normal day.  
  
His voice betrayed him, but he answered.  
  
He had to.  
  
"Five weeks ago. You came home drunk, a night out with Lestrade and your new mates at the Yard. The football game, a significant one, you told me. You came home elated, your team had won."  
  
Sherlock swallowed, taking a breath, staying where he was. But he looked away, towards the couch, afraid to watch John's expression, afraid he would see revulsion or pity or regret there.  
  
He struggled with the story, events coming out in clipped sentences, strained with the effort of finally telling John what he'd kept from him for weeks.  
  
"I was asleep on the couch. It was hot, and I'd left the windows open. I woke up to you with your hand on my forehead. You said I was too warm. You were incredibly drunk, and I told you so. You laughed. You said it was _nice_... that I--" He choked a little, his inability to speak of intimacies already kicking in.  
  
"You said it was nice that I could sleep through your coming in. You said I had never done that before. I said it was the heat. You said it was because I finally knew you, trusted you, even in my sleep."  
  
Sherlock started talking faster, nervous, exposed. He wanted away from the wall, he wanted to be as far from John as he could be.  
  
"You touched me, you... your hand. You lingered. And then you... You... John, I'm sorry,” he was, he definitely was, this apology came fast and easy, “I should have stopped you. I shouldn't have let you, but you'd never... and then you... and I..."  
  
He looked away, breathing fast.

  
John stepped back, his brain refusing to acknowledge what Sherlock was telling him. It did not happen, he had not... he would never... no...  
  
He felt his anger disappear with a pang of his heart, he felt his knees go weak.  
  
He had taken _advantage_ of his friend.  
  
It couldn't be true. Why could he not remember? Nothing, nothing of what he said, nothing of what he felt. _Nothing._  
  
Sherlock had pushed past him and was pacing the room nervously as he went on, sounding frantic. "It was nothing. I know it was nothing, it's alright. Just stop, stop stop, forget it. STOP!"  
  
John’s eyes moved on the other's nervous frame and he flinched when Sherlock shouted again.  
  
"I had... no idea..." he confessed, running a hand over his eyes in utter exhaustion. "Did I kiss you? Is that what you are implying?" he asked, wishing anything would come to mind, anything, even just the taste of the other's lips.  
  
It was Sherlock’s turn to flinch.  
  
How could he do something like that? How could he forget about it?  
"Oh god. Was it your first?"  
  
Sherlock looked away, shy, eyes liquid bright.  
  
“I haven’t let anyone else touch me. Not with them knowing that I am...” he closed his eyes briefly, cringing, “... _inexperienced_. But you. You know. You... you said I should let someone.. that it be you, because your drunken logic seemed to focus on my trusting you while I slept.”  
  
John stayed where he was, grimacing at the guilt the words sparked. He let Sherlock gather what was left of his dignity around him, trying to answer.  
  
"I don't know how to apologize," he admitted, looking down at his feet, then at Sherlock again. "But... I didn't do it because I would have done so with anyone... I think I did it... I did it because it was _you_. I am so sorry, Sherlock," he apologized again, still willing his brain to remember what had happened, anything that could give him the illusion he was not to blame.

  
Sherlock stopped pacing when John began to speak, and listened with his back towards him, knowing he would see more than John was saying, and not wanting to.  
  
He shook his head. John had certainly known who he was kissing, but Sherlock still believed that he would have kissed anyone in that state. He’d known that, and should have prevented it in the first place.  
  
When he could speak again, he only whispered. "I didn't stop you. I should have stopped you. If I had, there would be none of this. But I didn't."  
  
Sherlock let himself remember. He let it come to the fore of his mind without all the confusion, the denial, the guilt of knowing what they'd shared when John was out of his normal mind. He tried to remember it as it was, in that moment, without the shadow of doubt that came later.  
  
Doubt that the moment was special, knowing that John launched himself at anything that moved when he was sober, nevermind intoxicated, and not just virgins sleeping through his footsteps, not even when that meant the world.  
  
He remembered a soft touch on his face, trailing down his cheek. He remembered moving, sitting up, staring at John as he sat on the table, reaching out to him.  
  
 _"Has anyone ever kissed you, Sherlock? Did Irene? Really kiss you, I mean."_  
  
 _Confusion. Why would John--_  
  
 _"You should let someone kiss you. You should. You should let **me** kiss you."_  
  
 _And the hand kept moving, down, down to where Sherlock's robe opened and the hem of his worn shirt gaped just a little, the ridge of his collarbone exposed, traced then in the warm air by a surgeon's hands, as precise as science itself._  
  
 _"Let me kiss you. Let me be the first. Let me be the only. You trust me, let me."_  
  
 _John’s hand combing through his hair, his face near his, alcohol on his breath but it almost didn’t matter, not when John smiled, not when he pulled away, licking his lips._  
  
But there the memory changed. It merged. It merged with _tonight_ , and John’s hands through the hair of a stranger.  
  
John had said almost the exact same thing to both of them:  
  
 _“There. Look at you. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”_  
  
For Sherlock it had been the first words he heard after his first kiss, nearly 20 years too late.  
  
For Crying Woman Number 44, it was just another day.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. He was embarrassed by his naivete, by how easily it made him believe things that more experienced people just smiled at.  
  
John would have given anything to remember exactly what had happened, because at the moment he just felt like the biggest asshole who ever walked the earth.  
  
Sherlock had trusted him, he had given him what he had never given anyone else, and he had taken advantage of it for his own urges.  
  
And he _forgot_ about it.  
  
It felt like the John from that night was not him at all.  
  
“Why did you let me?” The question was burning in his mind.  
  
“You looked like you wanted to give it to me, so I accepted it. I wanted what you offered me, and by taking it, **I** compromised our friendship, not you.”  
  
"You wanted...?" John felt his breath catch in his throat. Surely Sherlock did not mean he wanted _him_?  
  
Eyes were restless again, but there was a spark of hope John could not fight. "I overstepped the boundaries, I had no idea... and I am sorry for that, but if you say... if you say you accepted me then, does it mean you would accept me again?" he asked with his heart in his throat.  
  
Sherlock _had been jealous_. It made sense now, but would that mean the same in Sherlock's overly complicated head?

  
The detective turned around, his curiosity, as always, more powerful than any reticence.  
  
John’s face broadcasted true regret. Sherlock frowned.  
  
“I still trust you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You did not take advantage of me, I am not _damaged_ because of it.”  
  
The step John took towards Sherlock was hesitant; he still was not sure of what he was allowed to do, but he knew he needed to be moving closer if he didn't want to run away completely.  
  
"This is not just trust I am talking about, Sherlock," he whispered. He tried to reach out for the other, but his hand froze in midair.  
  
He was scared. He couldn't believe himself, but he was shaking, because he knew that stepping further would mean he was taking advantage of Sherlock's innocence again.  
  
He was his only friend for God's sake. He was supposed to protect him from people like him.  
  
The way John _wanted_ him though, the way he had dissected his own feelings to keep himself as chaste as possible.  
  
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to regret the entire incident. I am unable to put it in the right framework, and you don’t even remember. It was nothing.”  
  
John’s eyes fell to the floor when Sherlock’s words reached his ears, the word _regret_ rang in his ears, it stabbed him in the heart.  
  
“I understand,” it was just a whisper.  
He guessed that was the answer to his question.  
  
He had no idea how else he could apologize, how else he could atone for his sin. At the moment his heart was bleeding and he just wished he could disappear.  
  
“I realize I shouldn’t have reacted as I did to you and Maggie or Melissa or,” he flapped his hand in disregard, in exhaustion really, still looking away.  
  
“I deserved it, I realize that now,” John still could not meet his eyes.  
  
Sherlock sighed at the rug. “I did not tell you because you did not act knowingly. I have enough experience with substances to know I cannot throw stones. And it remains that I let you.”  
  
“You let me because you trust me,” his voice betraying the shame he felt. “I took advantage of that... it’s inexcusable.”  
  
Sherlock’s head snapped up, his ever-ready impatience cracking like a whip. “Why do you insist on taking blame for this? You were _drunk_. I _wasn’t_. I took something from _you_.”  
  
John laughed bitterly: “What did you take? A kiss I’ve been wanting to share for years now? Yes, Sherlock that was a horrible thing to do,” he hissed, sarcastic, just as quick to anger as he had been before.  
  
He rubbed his forehead, willing himself to calm down. “Being drunk is a good excuse if it saves me from blame, but it’s not enough for me... not if you consider what I said, how I _lured_ you in...”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “I do not get _lured_.”  
  
The detective was more sensitive to the second implication, that John thought his innocence made him a swooning fool, than to the first implication that--  
  
Sherlock came up short. Again. He stood up straight, and stared.  
  
“You said years. You said ‘wanting’ and ‘ _years_.’”  
  
“Yes, I said that, exactly those words,” he snapped back, honesty still hurt.  
  
Sherlock threw his hands into the air. “This is why I didn’t tell you! I knew you would have one of your _scenes_! Look, I’ve told you that I’ve realized--”  
  
 _\--it meant nothing._  
  
But that wasn’t true. John had said it wasn’t, Sherlock had observed that he meant it, and now John claimed that not only did he not have to be drunk to want to, but he actively had. For years. Plural. Which translated to their entire acquaintance.  
  
His irritation bloomed. One moment he was angry because he was just another one of John’s little distractions. The next:  
  
“Right,” he started, his voice hard and angry, “I know my ignorance in these matters has been rather well demonstrated, since I created a _national security breach_ over a few text messages and half a seduction,” he saw John’s face change at that, “but I’m rather fucking sure you haven’t been wanting to kiss me for _years_. What with chasing everything with breasts since the moment you moved in.”  
  
He took a step forward, the anger in both their faces dangerous again.  
  
“So _what_ are you talking about?”  
  
“Excuse me if I thought chasing my asexual best friend was a deed doomed to fail,” he glared as if he could drill into Sherlock’s skull what his obvious motives were.  
  
“I was simply trying to distract myself, you know, go on with my life,” he had always been very good at keeping unpleasant things out of his head.  
  
Except after the injury, but then it had been Sherlock who had healed him.  
  
“I couldn’t just seduce you like you were _anyone else_ ,” he protested, almost offended by the idea: “I could not risk what we had... and I betrayed myself just as much as I betrayed your trust when I kissed you.”  
  
Sherlock took another step forward, pushing himself into John’s space.  
  
“First: not asexual. You have zero evidence of any sexual preference or desires on my part and you’re just stupid enough to make such a wild assumption without any facts.  
  
Second: you are not attracted to me. I have observed you in every kind of intimate moment over the last two years and you have never _once_ displayed _any_ of the indicators in my presence. I’m a genius, remember, I would have _noticed_.  
  
Third: you are lecherous. You could probably wank to a series of life insurance commercials. You were drunk and feeling affectionate about our friendship and curious about my experience and that’s all there is to it, so _stop this_!”  
  
John’s jaw almost dropped; he wasn’t sure if he was more offended or amused by the social analysis Sherlock performed on his behaviour.  
  
He looked up at him, not at all intimidated by the proximity, and poked his chest accusingly as he spoke.  
  
“First: zero evidence of sexual interests and desire means exactly what I said, asexual,” he mocked even his tone.  
  
“Second: you are completely oblivious to things regarding yourself. You might be a genius, but you are not me, so don’t even try to tell me what I want or don’t want.”  
  
“Third, I would really prefer you don’t dismiss everything I do as a natural instinct specific of low minds such as mine. I am **not** a horny drunk. I was weak, I gave in to something I secretly craved for.”  
  
“Forth!” he added, his index finger tense in warning, he didn’t want Sherlock to even _dream_ of interrupting him, “You better shut up about your stupid assumptions or I will show you just how much I want you in a way that will scar your great asexual mind for _life_ ,” Oh he meant it, “And then you will learn something about feeding me your insecurities as if they were my thoughts.”  
  
“My _insecurities_?” snarled Sherlock, “Oh then why don’t you? Certainly you can do better than you did the first time, kissing me like a bloody nun! Yes, please John, help the innocent virgin with his--”  
  
Sherlock was lucky the wall was not too far away behind him, because the force John used to pounce on him would have destroyed a few of his lab instruments had he hit the table.  
  
It was hardly planned, but John’s attack was precise and practical.  
  
One hand on Sherlock’s collar, pulling him down forcibly, the other grabbing his wrist and pinning it to the tapestry.  
  
Lips were the last to meet, not even a warning, nor a bit of hesitance, and he was sliding his tongue in the other’s mouth and pouring his passion into what he had craved for what felt like his whole life.  
  
His leg slid in between Sherlock’s, rubbing against him in a way that could be easily called sensual.  
  
He was making good on his promise.  
  
 _I’ll show you exactly what I want..._.  
  
Sherlock gasped as he tried to regain the breath John had slammed out of him, opening his mouth to John’s violent kiss and hissing in cool air between their lips. He fought back, angry, uncoordinated.  
  
Like any sudden kiss, it wasn’t nearly as elegant as it should have been. It wasn’t as targeted as the chaste thing John gave him five weeks ago, when both their mouths just barely touched.  
  
This was _conquest_ , and as messy a conquest usually was, and if Sherlock had thought he’d seen John as a sexual creature before, he was wrong.  
  
 _Oh god, don’t stop._  
  
“You right bastard,” Sherlock gasped out, pulling away and then diving back in, the hand that wasn’t trapped reaching up to grab something, anything. He fisted it in John’s jumper, pulling the hem, probably ruining it, not caring, tasting, just _wanting_ this frustrating  
  
fucking  
  
 _person_  
  
who followed him wherever he went and defended him and kissed him with the pub on his breath and made him think about it  
  
and made him _want_ it  
  
and made him _doubt_ it  
  
“Fuck!” he yelled, nearly biting John’s tongue, struggling against him, riding the leg between his, aggression surging, pushing him back, the violence in this so perfect a complement to the almost overwhelming relief of having John want him.  
  
Of fighting him over it.  
  
Of having him prove it.  
  
And then he remembered that he had his own point to prove.  
  
Sherlock ripped his face away and threw his weight forward. John lost his grip, eyes bright, face red, and Sherlock spun them around. John looked like he wanted to hit him as his back slammed into the wall, furious at having his control broken.  
  
“Not asexual,” Sherlock growled, before grabbing John’s face in both hands and knocking it back into the wall with the momentum of his own claim.  
  
John groaned, the pain quickly spreading in his skull, mixing with the mad hormones that were coursing through his veins.  
  
“God Sherlock,” he moaned, biting on the detective’s lower lip. “You don’t have to **bruise** me,” he protested, his hand burying in the other’s hair, pulling slightly.  
  
His free hand moved down and around, grabbing the other’s ass mercilessly.  
  
“This is just a small portion of how much I want you, Sherlock...” he said, his voice shaking as he looked straight at him, lips red, eyes blue and gleaming.  
  
Sherlock was panting, adrenaline burning, clarity in his thoughts like the high of an excellent crime, or a long chase. He stared at John’s face, seeing the blown pupils, his swollen lips. He didn’t even need to put his fingers to his pulse, knowing it was racing under hot skin.  
  
It was _fantastic_.  
  
Sherlock licked his lips, years worth of dormant instincts focusing in on the one man he trusted to know what to do with them.  
  
“You’ve never mentioned being with a man; I’ve never even seen you _look_ at a man. Why this, why _me_?”  
  
John grabbed the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. “How the _hell_ do I know, Sherlock?” he hissed, troubled by the question.  
  
“I have always liked girls...” his fingers brushing along Sherlock’s hairline. “But then I met _you_ and there’s been only you in my head.”  
  
“It’s not fair you know,” he was glaring at him. “You. Taking control of my life like that.”  
  
 _Truth. Truth. John was made of the truth, he was telling the truth._  
  
Sherlock pushed into him, grinding their foreheads together and digging his thumbs into John’s face, still holding him against the wall.  
  
“Not fair to me either,” was all he deigned to say, annoyed, before descending into his mouth again. He heard John moan a second time, felt his fingers grip his ass harder, and it fed his confidence, his desire.  
  
It was impossible to control, and he wanted more than he even knew how to take.  
  
He pulled away, hands tipping John’s head back, still pushing into him, and now biting and licking his neck.  
  
“You’re in my bloody _head_ ,” he snarled, biting down in emphasis, smelling the warm skin where it met his shoulder, “I can’t _concentrate_ , I can’t _think_ , I can’t stand people even _near you_ ,” he spoke open-mouthed against his skin, tasting his scent, “Damn you!”  
  
John’s head was fuzzy, the anger had turned to lust, but he still couldn’t see the difference. It was a blur in his almost non-existent thoughts.  
  
Sherlock had rid him of the thin rationality he still had with those bites on his neck.  
  
It was all about getting him closer, about touching him, he wanted to feel his skin, he wanted to explore all that was Sherlock, but he felt there was no time.  
  
He felt that if he hesitated, if he so much as blinked in the wrong way, then everything would be over. He could not afford that.  
  
It was with need that his fingers moved to the front of Sherlock’s trousers, he fondled him through the fabric, before he went for the belt.  
  
“Just. Don’t. Think,” he ordered.  
  
Sherlock was shocked when he felt John’s hand, and his sudden burst of confidence fled. There was the intimacy of having a doctor thoughtlessly rip your trousers off to inspect a stab wound, and there was the intimacy of your best friend purposefully touching you where you rarely even touched yourself.  
  
 _Can’t not think, can’t not think, and you’re making me think in bloody double bloody negatives and--_  
  
John’s knuckles pressed down in a long stroke through the fabric.  
  
“Oh!” he gasped, leaning on John’s shoulders, feeling his face heat with blush. John’s one hand smoothed up his side, his mouth went towards his neck and Sherlock could feel the heat of his body bleeding into his. He looked down, seeing only John’s elbow akimbo, working his hand between them.  
  
 _God. But. And it’s. And I’ve never--_  
  
The whisper of his belt as it was pulled through the loops made him weak in the knees. He grabbed John’s waist and twirled them again, at this point having moved along the wall and now Sherlock’s back was against the door itself.  
  
John looked up at him, hand poised at his button, and Sherlock raised his hands helplessly, not knowing what to do or where to touch. He knew he looked out of sorts and nervous. But he pressed himself back against the door, saying with his body what he couldn’t with his words.  
  
It was the same thing he’d felt five weeks ago:  
  
 _Okay. Yes._  
  
 _I trust you._  
  
 _I don’t know what I’m doing._  
  
 _Just please._  
  
John couldn’t stop, his mind wouldn’t allow hesitation, his muscles were working for a process he could not interrupt, not now.  
  
The other’s eyes, blue and scared, they made him groan and tremble.  
  
“If you want me to stop,” he muttered, his fingers venturing in the warmth of the other’s pants, stroking the sensitive skin.  
  
He felt the blood rushing, he felt the smooth skin right before curly hair.  
  
“You have to tell me now,” he warned, his gaze dripping with pure lust. “And you have to mean it.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, and then he nodded, and then he realized he didn’t remember how John had phrased his question anymore, since there were fingers stroking down the skin of his belly and about to go further and he--  
  
He shook his head violently, clearing it, and then spoke quickly to clarify: “Don’t stop. I don’t know what I’m doing but I know I don’t want you to stop.”  
  
He trusted John.  
  
 _So much._  
  
John wasn’t really listening anymore, he wished he could recall any control, any rationality, but he couldn’t.  
  
At that point it wasn’t even experience that could help him, he was pure instinct and desire.  
  
He shifted just slightly to the side, needily pressing his crotch against Sherlock’s hipbone, while his hand explored further. Sherlock’s hand found its way to John’s waist, welcoming him to push against him.  
  
Fingertips ghosted along the pulsing shaft and then dipped down, across his balls in a way that used to make his breath hitch.  
  
Sherlock flat out whimpered.  
  
“I can’t stop,” John mumbled, he was not coherent, the mere idea of doing this to Sherlock, with Sherlock, was making him mad.  
  
The next second he was wrapping his hand around the detective’s cock.  
  
He felt it pulse heavy under his palm, and it was following that rhythm that he started to move.  
  
Sherlock arched, his back digging into the wood behind him, his left hand scrambling for the doorknob, which rattled when he grabbed onto it for leverage.  
  
“Oh hell,” he gasped out, the absurdity of this making him let out a mad giggle. “John,” he rasped, dipping his head, seeking his lips.  
  
John leaned up, meeting Sherlock’s mouth halfway, his whole body rocking against the detective’s as his hand kept moving.  
  
The kiss was filthy, John had no control over it, taken by how hot his skin suddenly felt. It degenerated into bites, nibbling and sucking, and soon he was following a new urge along Sherlock’s neck.  
  
Soft skin was trapped in between teeth, a bruise sucked into pale white.  
  
“Mine,” he growled and squeezed the other’s cock possessively before he started pumping  faster.  
  
Sherlock bumped his head back against the wood, restless, his left foot shuffling back against the door and his right hand gripping John;s waist harder. He screwed his eyes shut as John’s hand started to burn a path of fire along his cock, harder and faster than he had ever dared touch himself.  
  
He wanted John closer, wanted him under his skin, wanted fucking _everything_ , things he couldn’t even articulate. He pulled him in, an uncoordinated action, it ruined the angle of John’s arm. The other man growled in frustration, and the doorknob knocked into Sherlock’s lower back.  
  
 _This is ridiculous._  
  
Frustrated, restless, and tense in a way Sherlock had never felt, he snapped into action: he grabbed John’s wrist, halting his fingers in mid-stroke, and pushed him back.  
  
The other man stumbled, surprised, but before he could get the wrong idea, before Sherlock could even bother to articulate why, he shoved John again, backwards into the room.  
  
John hurried, getting it, but tripped blindly on the table when they got too near. Sherlock caught his elbow and threw him back onto the couch anyway. Then he hooked his fingers into his trousers and pulled them the rest of the way off, kicking them aside.  
  
Modesty was _boring_.  
  
He moved forward boldly, straddling the other man’s lap, unashamed and wanting to be as close as possible. He put both hands in John’s hair and stared into his eyes, both of them panting, pupils wide.  
  
“Please,” he whispered, breathless.  
  
John gasped, his head spinning for the quick movements, the stumble, the pain, the bloody lust still making everything feel out of this world.  
  
Now his lap was full of Sherlock, half-naked Sherlock, naked in the right places, and he had no idea what to do.  
  
His neck stretched and craned, his hand grabbing Sherlock’s collar in a frustrated movement to drag him down.  
  
“Elaborate,” he breathed, because this could be oh so dangerous, and his lips just couldn’t stop kissing Sherlock, he couldn’t stop his tongue from exploring his mouth again, his free hand now running up the other’s thighs.  
  
Smooth skin and again that throbbing arousal.  
  
Oh this was a game he could play all night.  
  
Sherlock shuddered into the kiss, gripping John’s head, John’s hands tickling him through the light hair on his legs, everything in him craving that touch again.  
  
“I don’t know,” he moaned, desperate, even his skin aching for it. “You can-- what you were doing-- just anything. Anything.”  
  
John couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled up in his chest as he leaned back.  
  
“Alright,” he said reassuringly, his fingers quick to come back to Sherlock’s cock.  
  
It was a steadier grip, more intent. “Alright,” he repeated, looking right at the detective as he moved his hand, putting just that bit much pressure when he passed the bundle of nerves around the tip.  
  
With his legs spread and his cock free the pleasure went up by a factor of at least three. His mind had slowed considerably, but this observation was quite unavoidable. _This_ his body said, _This please this._  
  
Sherlock let out another small gasp as John’s hand moved with confidence, his hips starting to push forward in a natural rhythm coded somewhere in his DNA. He let his head fall back, balancing himself on John’s lap, his hands falling away from John and now boneless by his sides.  
  
He could feel John’s right hand on his left hip, steadying him, his thumb moving in small strokes. He could hear John’s breath, fast between his lips. He could hear night-time traffic, he could smell himself rising from the heat between his legs, he could feel his balls swaying beneath John’s grip.  
  
It felt like _sex_ , something he had never felt because someone was doing this to him, because someone _wanted_ to.  
  
And then he opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Something was happening.  
  
“John,” he gasped, knowing it was too soon, but looking down quickly and seeing hisfriendhisJohnhispartnerhis--  
  
Sherlock’s legs gave out, he almost tipped all the way forward, and then arched back as he came, too soon, surprising John as he shot onto his chest.  
  
His mind spun, his nerves flashed all at once, and for five shuddering seconds, Sherlock was _unquantifiable_.  
  
John’s hand flew back as if scalded when he saw Sherlock was actually coming, eyes widened as his jumper quickly became sticky.  
  
He had never seen a man other than himself come.  
  
“God,” it was almost a protest, it talked more about surprise than anything else.  
  
Eyes moved up to meet Sherlock though, his back arched, his skin glorious, the pleasure clear on his face.  
  
 _I’ve done that._  
 _I made him **feel.**_  
  
And he grinned, grabbing his collar again and dragging him down to attack his lips. Just because he could.  
  
Sherlock’s hands came out to catch himself on the back of the couch as he fell forward, framing the other man’s head. He fumbled through John’s insistent kiss, uncoordinated, _reeling_. The kiss was breathy, more air than lips, as Sherlock panted and his heart beat wildly in his chest. He was trembling, his mind absolutely blank in a way he had never felt without drugs.  
  
Everything felt surreal.  
  
He looked down, seeing the wet spots on John’s jumper, and could not believe himself. He could not believe what they’d done, or how they’d done it.  
  
“I, um, apologize,” he rasped out, gesturing, heat flooding his face. He swallowed, only then feeling quite naked. John was still tugging him close for kissing, and he leaned back in.  
  
“No worries,” John said with a grin, sucking Sherlock’s lower lip in between his teeth. “You’ll pay for dry cleaning anyway,” he teased, enjoying just how close they were, their breaths mingling.  
  
“Just remember I did _this_ ,” he whispered, his fingers running down Sherlock’s adam’s apple and to his chest. “And I was not drunk.”  
  
Sherlock was taken aback by the surge of sentiment that washed over him. He nodded, acknowledging, not knowing anything else to say. He offered John a tentative smile, which was returned, and then he leaned in for a purposefully chaste kiss. A reminder of where they began.  
  
He let his eyes travel down John’s body as he leaned back, getting his bearings, thinking.  
  
 _I want to see..._  
  
Sherlock moved gingerly, his legs weak and cramped as he slid slowly down the couch and came to sit at John's feet. Blue eyes were confused, and the other man frowned, but Sherlock put a hand out, resting it on John's thigh.  
  
He looked up at him, rubbing his face against the fabric at John's knee, curious to see how it would feel against his skin, while he gathered the strength to push through his reticence.  
  
"I..." he swallowed and shook his head, starting over. "Are you aroused, John?"  
  
John nodded, still looking confused. And a bit hesitant.  
  
"Let me see."  
  
His throat going dry, John thought the tent in his trousers was proof enough.  
  
The detective was staring at him though, expectant.  
  
“Fine,” he said, moving his hands down, purposely slow, he undid his belt, he pulled down the zip and then looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to stop him in case he needed to do so.  
  
When there was no response, he looped his fingers around the hem of his trousers and pants and pushed them down, exposing just what he had been asked to show.  
  
His jaw clenched as he looked up at Sherlock, suddenly nervous.  
  
John had been the one to tell him again and again that his intense scrutiny made people nervous, which was why he kept his eyes on John’s face for an extra moment before looking down. The other man was nervous, his arousal in danger of wilting.  
  
He did as John had done, and took away any chance to doubt.  
  
“Just. Don’t. Think,” he repeated, mimicking him.  
  
He laid his head on John’s thigh, still looking up at him and holding his gaze, a very intimate look between them even from so far away. And then he reached out his hand and wrapped it around John’s cock, startled by its warmth, and smiled.  
  
“Now show me _this_.”  
  
John’s breath hitched in his throat, his eyes closing slowly, he felt the excitement, the arousal, spark anew in his chest.  
  
“Sherlock,” he whimpered, those long pale fingers were a wet dream on their own.  
  
“Yes, okay, I can--” he had no idea what to say really, he just wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s, positioned his fingers better, with patience, and then started moving, showing him exactly what he liked best.  
  
“Tip is sensitive... no nails...” he warned him, arching a bit as he felt a long chill of pleasure run up his spine.  
  
It was like a feast to his eyes, watching this, watching the dozens of subtle changes as their hands moved together. When Sherlock tightened his fingers, John’s lips parted. When John’s hand twisted, the skin moving smooth as silk under Sherlock’s fingers, his breath changed.  
  
Sherlock lifted his head off John’s thigh, not really interested in where their hands were, only in the reactions they brought. He watched, he listened, and after trying two experimental tugs, one flick with his thumb and half a twist mid-stroke, Sherlock Holmes began writing a roadmap to pleasuring John Watson.  
  
The transparency of John’s surrender to lust in this intimate moment was...  
  
“John...” he murmured, his voice low, “Just look at you...”  
  
“Can’t...” groaned John, his head tilting back, shots of pleasure making it impossible for him to concentrate on anything other than himself, his cock, his heart, Sherlock’s fingers, they were all part of him at the moment.  
  
Sherlock was a quick study, he liked that. No time to tell him just how fantastic he was this time though.  
  
“Like that--” he whimpered, his free hand fisting the fabric of the couch under him.  
  
“Faster,” he added feeling his insides tighten.  
  
He was bloody close and if anything could show that, it was the fact that he could hardly guide Sherlock any more.  
  
Sherlock came up to his full height on his knees, leaning forward, watching attentively.  
  
“Let go,” he whispered, awed, bumping his wrist up to let John know he could relax..  
  
John was happy to comply and he moved his hand away, flinging it back to the seat of the couch, grabbing the edge of the cushions, his legs spreading wider by default.  
  
“My voice...” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pushing his thumb up along the vein, “It makes your left leg twitch.”  
  
John gave a breathless laugh, moaning despite it, his hips starting to hitch up. He was flushed, moisture along his hair.  
  
“Good deduction,” he groaned, eyes tilting to the ceiling. _God._  
  
Sherlock concentrated, his wrist a blur now, his other hand coming up to trace up John’s thigh, press against his sac, squeezing and cupping as best he could given the angle, the motion. John responded again, more violently, his head moving from side to side, breathing faster.  
  
“John,” he pitched his voice lower, he leaned in closer, “John, there’s no one else I want to touch, no one else I want to touch me. You said I’m yours. You’re right.”  
  
John’s head snapped up, eyes unfocused, but looking for Sherlock’s.  
  
His right hand came up, scrambling, grabbing for Sherlock’s left. He gave it to him, and John fell back, close, choking on air.  
  
“I want to give you my first everything. And right now, I want you to give me _this_.”  
  
John’s hand clenched around Sherlock’s hand suddenly, crying out, knocking his head back and biting his lip.  
  
Sherlock was startled, a little panicked, not sure what to do with the hand still pumping, twisting, wringing incredible sounds from the man he rarely saw lose control, the man now writhing on their couch.  
  
Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John’s cock sent more wet spots to join his own stains from earlier. His fingers were suddenly gooey and warm, and he kept stroking until John gave a whimper.  
  
“Too much after, you can--” he took a shuddering breath, eyes still closed, head still thrown back, “You can stop.”  
  
He did, raising his hand to his face, looking at what John had spilled on him. _Evidence_.  
  
John slowly opened his eyes, his right hand squeezing his left. Pupils were finally focusing again, on the other’s face, the hand stained in his cum.  
  
“I won’t forget this, you know. Ever,” he muttered, his voice raw, there was this feeling, this unsettling certainty sloshing in his belly.  
  
Sherlock had captured much more than his lust.  
  
“Not even if you want me to,” he warned him, fingers squeezing his hand, he didn’t want to move, he didn’t want to stop feeling Sherlock’s warmth attached to his.  
  
Sherlock nodded, “It would be impossible to gather relevant data if you keep forgetting our encounters. In fact I think we should schedule another one, immediately, so that I can keep my observations consistent. Also, use my dry cleaner,” Sherlock wiped his hand on John’s jumper, “since your little old Mrs. Hammershim will be dreadfully shocked and you will be embarrassed.”  
  
 _Schedule?_ John laughed lightly.  
  
Sherlock was about to get up, the strength back in his legs, a feeling of refreshment and energy and _happiness_ giving him a sudden zest. His failed bacteria experiment was long gone now, but he wanted to do something. Go somewhere. Celebrate.  
  
But he still had John’s hand around his, holding him tightly. He looked up into his face. He saw... something. So he sat up slowly enough that he was able to hold onto John, both of them half-naked, ravished, unashamed before each other on this wonderful London night.  
  
Sherlock put one knee forward onto the couch, coming back into John’s space, and gripped his hand as he leaned in to kiss him. To reassure him, because there was hesitancy there. He pulled back, and smiled.  
  
“Let’s go out. I know it’s late, I don’t care. Let’s go somewhere, anywhere. I want to celebrate. I want to _run_ ,” he laughed, staring down, kissing John again, again and again, “ _John. Thank you._ ”  
  
The doctor groaned, taken aback by the other’s enthusiasm, he was quite ready for sleep if he really had to tell the truth.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes were eager though, how could he protest? And the kisses, those lips, he could very well get addicted to.  
  
“What are you thanking me for? I only succeeded in ruining one of my favorite jumpers,” he said, pulling away and looking at said jumper a bit horrified. “I am not even sure dry cleaning would help...”  
  
Sherlock hesitated, taking in John’s words, and the tired look in his eyes. His surge of endorphins was receding, and it was so similar to the withdrawal of other opiates in his past that the return to lucidity was painful and harsh. His uncertainty came rushing back so fast it was actually shocking. He pulled himself back a bit more, pulling down the tails of his shirt and trying to cover himself.  
  
He looked down at John, his ruined state, the remnants of their encounter now quite disgusting across his front, embarrassing evidence of frenzied encounter, instead of the wondrous experience it had been at the time.  
  
John’s detached tone, his not seeing what this meant to Sherlock... it was horrible. What had seemed so mutual between them now just seemed like anger turned to lust.  
  
He felt humiliated, and just as stupid as he had when this all began. He didn’t know what the doctor was thinking, or what to do with himself. But he did know that galavanting like a idiotic child on a sugar high was far too humiliating to tolerate for even one more second.  
  
All those thoughts were a fleeting series of soft expressions, invisible to the eyes of strangers, but John could see them all as clear as the sun.  
  
Sherlock was doubting him. Again.  
  
He reached out his hands just as Sherlock went to pull away, cupping Sherlock’s cheeks and making him look at him instead of at his thoughts.  
  
“Sherlock,” he whispered, grimacing a bit as he shifted from under him, just enough so he could get their faces closer.  
  
“I am rather mad for you, I hope you realize that... ” his thumbs brushed along the detective’s cheeks and jaw. “I _need_ you to realize that...”  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  
  
He believed him. It was almost worse than doubting him, because it meant...  
  
“John, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he shook his head, John’s hands following him, holding on despite it, “Sex ruins friendships. Even I know that. I’ve solved eight murders owed to cheating partners and five thefts relating to divorces and received eighteen emails just last week about... about...”  
  
He couldn’t go on. John was looking at him so tenderly, they were so close, and it was just...  
  
 _God he couldn’t lose this._  
  
“John,” he whispered, desperately vulnerable, the name like a cry for help, “John, I don’t know _what to do_. I already compromised our partnership just because you were being yourself, how on earth can you expect me to get this right?”  
  
John frowned, his hands trembling slightly, because he hardly knew what to do either.  
  
His whole world was different now.  
  
He knew about _all that_ , he knew how things could go wrong, hell, his own string of failed relationships was proof enough of that, without having to go into murder cases.  
  
He was not going to let go though. He just couldn’t.  
  
“I don’t expect anything, Sherlock. Nothing at all. I don’t know how things can be right, I don’t know what can make things right...” there was a hint of desperation in his tone, there was a strain in his heart.  
  
“All I know is what I feel... and what I want... I want this not to be a mistake. I don’t want you to regret _this_...” he muttered and tried to pull him closer.  
  
“I want to be able to kiss you, I want to be able to hold you,” his eyes moved on the other’s face and for a moment his insecurities perked up as well. “But I will respect what you want, I will always be your friend, _just_ your friend if it is what you really want...” his voice slowly failing him, he didn’t want to think about that option, he knew it’d break his heart.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He knew he wanted this, but could he risk it, could it be possible to balance this risk with this reward?  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes closed while he spoke, focusing.  
  
“Five weeks ago I was concerned you would remember. In the morning. That you would wake up and leave in some heterosexual crisis, or hate me for letting you kiss me. I was almost happy to think I had gotten to kiss you and had taken no risk in doing so. Because the risk... John you need to know... you need to know that the thought of losing you is _anathema_ to me. I _need_ you.”  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
“I’m rather certain it’s too late for us to regret anything,” he rushed to speak when he saw concern, defeat, “I mean that the die has been cast. This has happened, a bit beyond both of us I realize. But I _cannot_ lose you. I’m going to have to insist you stay now.”  
  
Sherlock nodded once, decisively.  
  
“Forever. If that was at all unclear.”  
  
John’s lips pursed in thought for a long moment.  
  
“Leaving has never been an option, Sherlock...”  
  
His throat was dry as he let his fingers move down the detective’s jaw, his throat and neck. “But I need to know _how_ you want me to stay. As a friend... as a lover... I promise I will do what you want, Sherlock...”  
  
“If you keep touching me, you will have your answer.”  
  
Sherlock leaned forward again, his eyes dark. John sank back against the couch, looking up at him with uncertainty.  
  
“That was not your question, I know, but it _is_ the answer. Evidence, John. Always evidence. The evidence says that I just climaxed in your lap when I have not sustained an erection for more than a few minutes at any point over the last five years, _and_ ,” his eyes dipped back down, only long enough to be suggestive, “I daresay I could again.”  
  
Sherlock leaned closer, his face serious.  
  
“You make me _want_. You do not understand what that means for me, John. I thanked you because before you kissed me, before _this_ , I did not believe that I was capable of such things. And now I do, and now you do too, and I know _you_ want it, and--”  
  
Sherlock frowned suddenly, hearing his own struggle to articulate this in the voice usually so certain and clear. It was the manifestation of the fear that he was doing this incorrectly, and the fact that he had to actively fight the hesitance and frustration that showing his feelings created.  
  
He shook his head again, clearing his thoughts. John was waiting, knowing it was not nearly the end.  
  
“I admit I am unsure. I am unsure about what this will do to us, our partnership. I fear that my lack of socialization still means I am incapable of sustaining a romantic relationship, that you will be dissatisfied with me... and that you will leave no matter what you say.”  
  
“But we both want this, don’t we? And it’s too late to change that, isn’t it?” he narrowed his eyes, staring into John, pushing the truth of it at him with all his might. “I don’t want to change it. Neither do you.”  
  
It was difficult to say, one part of him rolling his eyes at the word, but knowing John needed to hear it.  
  
“My lover, John. That’s what I want you to be. As the man who gave me this,” and he touched his neck, just above the bruise he knew was there, “and the man I want to take much more.”  
  
“So _yes_ , John. Just bloody yes, if I can ever manage to get this out,” he sneered at himself, “Yes you may keep your claim on me, and yes I will make my own, and yes we will...” he sighed, still a little heavy with the weight of their uncertain future, “we will _try_.”  
  
There was a smile breaking on John’s lips, a blissful joy that was like a spark. The hope of what could be their future together. He could see it. He could see it well. Like he never did before for anyone else he had been with.  
  
Fear was something he knew very well, but he chose not to let it guide him this time. He was going to trust this, just like he trusted Sherlock.  
  
“You are always such a pompous arse,” he commented, sitting up, tucking himself in. He needed a shower. “You could have just said _yes_.”  
  
Blue eyes moved to meet his. Reassuring. “I am scared too, but this is worth it,” he exclaimed, placing a kiss on his lips.  
  
Sherlock peered down at him, pausing in that way that often unnerved people. He wanted to take in every detail, every nuance of John’s expression. And he went over their conversation in his head, inscribing it chemically on the tissue of his complex brain.  
  
John’s face said everything he needed to know, and he hoped his own was just as transparent. He felt like a window to relief and uncertain joy, fear turned to anticipation, and trust tempered like steel.  
  
John waited, and eventually Sherlock moved back off his lap, pulling down his shirt to remain covered as he rose to his full height.  
  
Sherlock swallowed, “So... what happens next?”  
  
John moved to stand up, his legs were sore by then, but he hardly noticed.  
  
He was distracted, he was looking at Sherlock, disheveled and half-naked, he was beautiful in ways he couldn’t describe.  
  
“Bed, Sherlock,” he muttered and grinned, taking his hand.  

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【翻译】证据](https://archiveofourown.org/works/951244) by [rosyrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyrain/pseuds/rosyrain)




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